


Run Like Wolves

by artanogon



Category: The Brotherband Chronicles - John Flanagan
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Introspection, M/M, it's not a whole lot just giving a warning, mentions of dysphoria, smh BB fandom, the wolves have been through some STUFF, why doesn't ROLLOND have a TAG he is my SON
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24392038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artanogon/pseuds/artanogon
Summary: In the brotherband competitions, the Herons were the famed winners. The Sharks were the disgruntled losers in the final trial. But Rollond's brotherband, kind and honourable and good, came in third and became forgotten.Now, it's time to tell their story.Welcome to the Wolves.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 21





	Run Like Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> hi folks! i'm back again with a shit ton of poetic headcanons! heavily inspired by smug_albatross' Shark's Teeth, and sharing much of the same style. 
> 
> (also, for context, Sigrid is my name for Rollond's fiance, who deserved better in book 5. Karl is from Shark's Teeth, and he and Rollond were together until they,,,,,,,, weren't. that's a story to be told someday.)
> 
> many thanks to elizathehumancarrotfor betaing!

Sometimes in epic tales, there are what are called “heroes of another story”. They show up in the lives of the main characters occasionally, but for the most part, they live their own lives with their own stories off-page. The tales of the Herons are written in Skandia’s history; they will go down in glory and be remembered forever.

And the Wolf brotherband— they are mentioned, praised for their help, but then they are forgotten. The Sharks and the Herons take the competitions, take the fame, and live on in sagas. As time slips through their fingers like sand through an hourglass, the story of the Wolves withers.

But they are so much more than the few scraps of memory that survive beyond the love of their friends and village. They are fair and good and noble like Hal tells their personalities, but they are complex, with deep flaws and their own stories to tell. They are heroes in ways that are overlooked (they may not have recovered the Andomal or single-handedly held off the entire Temujai nation like the Herons did, but the lives they have saved and the deeds they have done deserve a ballad of their own), and compared to their agemates, they are not much.

However, not all bravery is found in great and grand actions. Some of it is just the quiet ability to do what is right no matter what it costs you. Sometimes it is just not forgetting the debts you owe and giving a hand to those who need it no matter what they’ve done. That is the Wolves’ kind of bravery. And it makes them the strongest brotherband of them all.

**Rollond** is their skirl, and he’s everything Tursgud isn’t. He’s loyal and honest and a meticulous planner, careful intelligence hidden behind the typical big-and-dumb Skandian build. He watches for the strengths of his competitors, for their flaws (competitors, but not his enemies, just fellow boys with a goal until Tursgud leaves their brotherband to sink and Rollond learns what hatred feels like) and matches his efforts accordingly. Henjak to compete with Tursgud because Tursgud’s a damn fool and runs everything himself even when he knows Karl would leave their competitors in the dust. Bjorn to fight Stig, because Bjorn is whip-smart and will know exactly how to distract Stig enough to win. Sometimes it’s not enough, but sometimes it is. The Wolves are strong for it, perhaps weighing the scales too much against the other bands, but all the research in the world doesn’t prevent silly mistakes and bad luck getting in their way.

Rollond is so alive it’s almost blinding. He is laughter and congratulatory slaps on the back, bear hugs and relentless teasing and so much drive he’d rather work than sleep, just because life is so short that hours are too precious to waste. He loves activity and competition, and while fair he may be, he hates to lose. Under his friendly ease, there’s a sort of desperation to prove himself, to show what he’s made of. It’s that desperation that drives him to tack into the wind during the race, and it’s only when he hears the crack of their mast that he realises what his hubris has cost them.

He doesn’t forget that mistake, and he doesn’t forgive himself for it either. It reminds him that risks are risks for a reason.

**Dell** is Rollond’s second and his best friend, with flashing eyes and an unreadable face, born to an Arridi war commander and Jorgen, a Jarl who wouldn’t know lenience if it slapped him in the head. Where Rollond wears his heart on his sleeve and is quick to give it away, Dell is sceptical. He keeps Rollond from making mistakes as best he can, though it isn’t always easy. His skirl is a planner, but Dell is meticulous— he has to dot every i, cross every t. He’s not like Anton or Bjorn, he’s not a calculating machine or a schemer, just someone striving for perfection at unreasonably high standards.

On Dell’s sixteenth birthday they take a fishing boat and go sailing together, farther out into the sea than they’ve ever sailed on their own. They stop at a stretch of beach a ways off the coast, just stand on the rocks and watch distant clouds of a spring storm off on the horizon. Dell’s gotten to be taller than Rollond now, rail-thin and lanky, his skin a pale coffee brown after the long months of overcast weather. He’s always looked older than he is, but now he looks like a man with the dark shadow of a beard. He seems so much more mature than his years, he always has, but now it’s more apparent than ever.

Rollond watches the waves lap at the shore for a minute, then turns towards him. “When brotherband training starts, I want you as my second.”

Dell raises an eyebrow. “Because I’m your best friend?”

“Partially.” He shrugs. It's by no means an uncommon occurrence— half of Rollond's sentences are shrugs. “But mostly because we make good partners. I tend to forget the important things. You don’t. And plus, you keep me sane. It’s going to be a lot to handle and I want someone I know I can depend on.”

“I might disappoint you,” Dell says after a moment of deliberation.

“If anything, it’ll be the reverse.”

Dell considers him again, always weighing the odds, setting goals and watching for how the wind blows. He’s been caught off guard too many times in his life, and he doesn’t want any storms or squalls to fall on him when he least expects it. But sometimes, a chance comes along that’s worth taking. This might be one of them. “I’m game,” he says finally, and Rollond grins with something like glee. Dell gives a slight smile back.

They’re going to be one hell of a team.

**Henjak** is the kindest of them all, fast and cheerful. He blazes through life like the sun brought to earth, burning down every obstacle in his path and lighting the way for them, always moving towards the future, ever forward. He runs far ahead of them, clearing the way for the rest of them to follow. He’s unabashedly affectionate and he loves his friends body, heart and soul (and he makes sure they know it). He is the one who sits by Rollond’s side as Rollond cries bitter torrents over Karl, over the fierce love that he found and lost. He keeps his hand around his skirl’s shaking shoulders until the sun has risen into a new day. Such devotion to his family is typical for him— he’s endlessly patient through their bad days, he’s the one who keeps them together no matter what life throws at him.

He runs everywhere he can instead of walking, racing through the streets. He holds his friends’ hands, kisses their foreheads, all hugs and physical intimacy that most of them have never gotten and are too afraid to ask for. Tursgud watches with a sneer twisting his face. He outright mocks Henjak, calls him gay when Henjak wraps his arms around Bjorn after his friend ends up injured in the wrestling match and it hurts, of course it does, because Tursgud understands nothing.

Tursgud isn’t _wrong_ , exactly, but boys should be allowed to share physical affection too. It’s a damned shame that bastards with their heads up their asses keep ruining it for them. It’s not like Tursgud knows what love is anyway, who’s he to talk? What gives him the right?

Henjak likes to believe he’s infallible, but words cut him more deeply than punches or stones ever could. Nevermind what that old proverb says.

**Keld** is a whirlwind of stubborn anger and fiery red hair. There’s few things he hates more than injustice, and for that, he despises the Sharks. Rollond tells him they aren’t all bad, but then he comes back one night after _Lynx_ almost sinks with a broken heart and black eye. Keld doesn’t say the words that snap to mind, just touches his shoulder and musters some gentle words of comfort. But deep inside of him, a dark little voice whispers _I told you so._

He’s not proud of that part of him, but he is proud of the good things he’s done. He’s proud of the support he’s given his little sister, raising her when their father couldn’t, and he’s proud that he knows how to do the right thing. He’s not got many impressive deeds, and he isn’t much to look at, but it’s not like that matters much anyway.

Keld’s smaller, slightly built with all the anger of that big loud boy on the Herons’ team. He doesn’t care much about them, truthfully. The people he pays attention to he either loves fiercely or despises, and he has little time to spare for others.

His flaws eat at him and they are what he thinks of first. It is hard to love himself, but his friends return his affection just as fiercely because he is generous and there is nothing he will not do for them. He carves and draws from the heart to make gifts for them, he sings for them and is always there if anyone needs someone else to lean on. He is their most protective brother, time and time again he gives them purpose when they are listless. He gives and gives and gives, nevermind that he has already given so much there will one day be nothing left. He would die for his brothers in a heartbeat, and eventually he does. They mourn him like they have lost a part of their souls.

**Anton** is the one who’s always been picked on and harassed by Tursgud’s cronies, and he’s grown bitter for it. There is no place for him among the burning stars like Rollond and Henjak, so he learns to hide back in the shadows instead— but even he isn’t as far back into the shadows as some of his agemates are. He knows there’s blood on Jens’ hands, though he never speaks of it. Anton’s not fallen that far yet, but he's had a few near misses. He retains as much normalcy as he can, but years of distrust have broken some part of him, sapping away at his happiness like an infected wound saps strength. A long scar crosses his collarbone and he won’t speak of where it comes from, but the Wolves have heard rumours of a knife fight. It would certainly explain his missing right ear.

He’s skilled with spears and knives; better with tactics. He watches for openings, takes advantage of distractions and rarely fights fair. It does him no good in brotherband training, makes him a pariah, but when they are past that phase of over-wrought Skandian morality, it comes in handy. He saves their lives more than once.

They say they’re in his debt, he waves it aside. He may not have any taste for the constraints of the Skandian “code”, but there is honour among thieves. He’s not always happy in his own skin, sometimes he wants to tear it off and grow into who he’s supposed to be. But he has a good heart and a genuine (if rare) smile, and he will always listen, and eventually forgive. He may want to be reborn, just for a chance to be the man he wants to be, the man he says he is, but he recognises there is some goodness left in him, in this body that isn’t quite his.

**Frey** is the healer, the stubborn mother hen of their group who bandages knuckles and does the best he can to fix injured hearts. He has the most vibrant green eyes, like clear seawater in the summer light, and they carry so much warmth. A smile is always playing around the corner of his mouth, and though he pretends to be the responsible one, he’s the worst prankster of the whole bunch. He’s the one that makes them all laugh, who makes their brotherband a home from the start.

He’s a bit of a nag, truthfully, and protective to a fault, but it’s ingrained into his nature at this point. He’s broad and tall, with gentle, deft hands designed to hold and support and heal. His height is beyond intimidating, but he uses his strength to carry wounded men, his keen and beautiful eyes to watch for the welfare of his friends. He uses all of himself to support and _give_ , so in keeping with who he is as a person. He and Jens are practically inseparable—he is the only one in the brotherband who knows what Jens has done, but his friend has long since been forgiven. Hate and disgust do not come naturally to him.

Frey is also a worrywart to the point of being nicknamed “Mother Freya”. It sticks, but he can’t say he minds it too much. The Wolves keep coming to him with injuries and grievances anyways, and when he has a bad week of his own that ends with his blood on a scalpel, his brothers hold him close and do not let go. So they can complain away, he knows he’s loved, and the scars left on his arms hold more good memories than bad ones.

**Bjorn** is the Wolves’ rock, big and strong and dependable. His shaggy dark hair and white-patched dark skin make him intimidating at first glance, and when their brotherband is first formed the Wolves are a bit wary of him. But before long, Bjorn shows that he has a razor-keen mind and a wicked sense of humour, quick to figure out a plan and piece together puzzles from clues others don’t notice at all. He is mocking and has a tongue as sharp as his brain. Curses come forward more naturally than praise for him, and it’s gotten him in trouble more than once. Sometimes when his words cut too deep and people turn away from him, he feels he is unlovable, that the smiles around him hide thinly veiled hate.

Then he meets Henjak— gorgeous, honest, brilliant and bright-as-the-sun Henjak. The wild, athletic boy takes him under his wing and gives Bjorn support he didn’t know he needed. Henjak is never anything but upfront, and his light clears some of the dark clouds from Bjorn’s mind. He begins to understand that he is not just there because he is needed, but because he is _wanted_.

And suddenly, his bitter humour is there to make others laugh, to win competitions and spite their enemies. His strength becomes their anchor, helps them hold steadfast even when storms threaten to sweep them away. Henjak remains flitting around him like a butterfly, unrelenting warmth on even the coldest days. They are light and dark, the two of them. Henjak is golden hair and skin bright against the night Bjorn has become. They are so intertwined, so inseparable, that when bloody wonderful Henjak kisses him after the competitions are over, it’s like something that’s always meant to be clicks into place. The kiss is a small thing, but it changes their relationship for good.

And in a good way, Bjorn muses years later, when he kneels before Henjak and asks his sunshine to marry him.

**Torval** is the inventor in their group, so fiercely creative he’ll make anything he puts his mind to— art, stories, a thousand strange bits and bobs like nothing they’ve ever seen. Sometimes he makes things before he plans them, sometimes he creates just for the fun of it. He fills notebooks with scrawled ideas in untidy handwriting, his hands not fast enough to accurately translate the thoughts that go a mile a minute.

When he and Hal meet, there is the sort of connection between them that only birds of a feather have. They have their differences (Torval actually _sleeps_ , unlike Hal, who Torval watched stand at the tiller for _two days on end, what kind of madman does that?_ ) but they are kindred spirits. He steps aboard the Heron for the first time and his heart soars with her as they sail because what a _magnificent_ thing that this skirl has created, blood and tears poured into it like the labour of love it is. Torval has nothing but respect for this boy, and the people he admires will always have his goodwill.

Ten years later, when the Heron is sinking and Hal might not make it home, Torval is the one who helps him, because Torval never forgets— even if there are some things he’d rather not remember. And he will be there if he is needed. Time and time again, he proves himself.

Torval has always been the most dedicated and dependable of them all, rooted in reality as a sturdy tree. Always and ever a constant. The Wolves love him for it.

**Jens** is the one of them with the darkest past, who carries heavy secrets and the vast burden of guilt on his slumped shoulders. Grief makes deep lines and shadows on his face, haunts him in nightmares that leave him so terrified he stays up for nights on end just to avoid them.

Frey notices the exhaustion first and finds Jens sitting on the grass outside the barracks, his skin marble-white under the glaring light of the full moon. He wants to give Jens a thousand reasons why this is unhealthy, lecture him about why he needs to _rest_ , to ask a thousand questions. But he doesn’t. Instead, he simply sits beside his bandmate (not friend, not yet) and watches the stars with him.

It becomes a nightly ritual, and when Jens eventually falls asleep on his shoulder one night, Frey is the one who carries him inside, glad to see him content for once. When the nightmares rise up again, Jens goes to him for comfort. Neither of them speak about it, no offers are ever made, they still don’t talk much outside of the sleeping hours, but they stand a bit closer to each other now and make a point of sitting together at meals. And bit by bit, the night terrors fade.

When Frey breaks down, Jens is the first one to hold him, the first one to reassure him that he is not the worse for these impulses, that he is _kind_ and _good_ and never alone. Frey says nothing in reply, but the hands around his shoulders tighten ever so slightly and that is answer enough. They have their brotherband; they have each other.

They spend time together outside of training after that, and one day when they’re skipping stones at a pool in the hills, Frey sits down on the budding grass and watches the ripples fade.

The words come out in a rush. “I don’t think I like men. Or women. Or anyone. In the romance sense, I mean. Or—” he half-laughs, running a hand through his unruly brown hair. “You see a lot of naked people working in healer’s halls, and I don’t understand the fuss over that either.” He pauses, his eyes flicking to Jens’. “Do you think I’m any less for it?”

Jens shakes his head and sits down beside him. “Nah. You don’t need someone else to be whole. Or love, I don’t think, not romance at the least.”

Frey looks a little surprised, but he smiles and his eyes light up again. “You’re a good friend, Jens.”

“But a worse person.”

“Not to me.” Because Jens has the blood of two people on his sixteen-year-old hands, but there’s not a day that goes by when he doesn’t regret it. Because he is compassionate under his cold exterior, and he reads people like no one Frey’s ever known. He always knows the right thing to say, to do, how to pull someone from the brink when they’re just too tired to hold on anymore. Because Frey loves him— not romantically, never romantically, but as more than a brother. Closer than family. Like two souls split from one, drawn to each other because at the core they are the _same_ , they _match_. Frey doesn't need romance to be complete, but it _is_ Jens who makes him whole. Jens, who crept into Frey’s life on cat’s paws and found a home in his heart before Frey even knew what was happening.

Not all soulmates are bound in Eros. Some are just the best and dearest of friends.

And finally, beloved (self-appointed) older sibling among the Wolves is **Vali** — wild and loud and bursting with energy, determined to make the world remember her. She isn’t the only Skandian warrior to flow between different genders and preferences like ocean waves rise with the tide, sometimes wild and roaring and _demanding_ , sometimes quieter, but never stagnant. The Vallas themselves aren’t contained by such a simple binary— but they say brotherband training is for boys, and so Vali swallows her bitterness and bears it even when all she wants is to show with pride who she is. She worries she won’t be accepted for it, that when he walked onto the training ground that day he’d never get to be who he was.

But miracle of miracles, Rollond chose him and he found himself the most unconditionally loving family he’d ever known. She can be female one day or male, neither if it doesn’t fit, and never have to worry that she’ll be scorned for it. She is never confined in such a simple box when she is with the Wolves, with this family she has found.

Once, after a fight with Jarst that gets their team demerits, he punches his knuckles bloody on a training bag as he wants to scream at the unfairness of it all. He isn’t rash anger like Keld, but rage simmers inside him and sometimes it just boils over, so he has to run before anyone gets hurt.

When he turns around, Anton is standing there, holding bandages out to him. Vali takes them and goes to clean his knuckles. There is silence for a minute before Anton speaks.

“I felt trapped too,” he says.

Vali doesn’t look up, but he is listening.

“My parents. The bullies, a lot of people in this village— they keep telling me I’m a girl like they have any right to control who I am. It sucks, but they don’t. They don’t get to control me, and I know who I am. They don’t get to take that away from me. Don’t let them take it from you either.”

Vali finally stands, moves closer to Anton. Anton helps him wrap the bandages around his split skin. “Why can’t they just understand?”

“They’re morons,” Anton says with a hint of a smile. Warmth rises in Vali’s chest despite himself. “But we’ve got our family. And you’ve got me. You’ve got all of us.”

A smile breaks through to Vali’s face. His anger is fast and fleeting, dangerous in his intensity, but it always vanishes soon enough. And Anton, somehow, has known what to do to help him, known enough to give him the solidarity he needs.

“Thanks, little brother,” he laughs, and reaches over to ruffle Anton’s hair before he can stop himself. Anton scrunches up his nose, but his smile is wider now. They are family. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that.

After that, he grows his hair long and puts elaborate braids in it, unashamed of who he is. It’s still challenging to shoulder through other people’s words, it still hurts, but Anton stands at his elbow to support him. Vali won’t let himself be held down by people who won’t understand him. He becomes their navigator, their helmsman and steady path home. He laughs long and hard, lets his reckless desire for _joy_ and _life_ take over. He knows he has a home to come back to when the wayfaring compass of his soul has him voyaging alone for too long.

Once, around the campfire the Wolves have set up in the clearing, she claps an arm around Rollond’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t ask what for, she has a sneaking suspicion he knows already. Instead, he smiles at her, the light of the fire glowing warm across his smooth dark skin, and starts singing a song of home.

The Wolves don’t win the brotherband competition— they set out to, but come in third after bad luck and a snapped mast. But they are honourable and kind, good friends and respected Skandians. They find allies in the Herons and the good people roped into the Sharks brotherband (some of the good ones die aboard _Nightwolf_ , and it breaks their hearts a little too). They are closer-knit than the other two bands, a tighter group than even the Herons at first, and of course, they don’t say goodbye when competitions are over. They become a crew of their very own.

When the Wolves have their own ship— _Wolfrunner_ , they call her, and she is a beauty—they find themselves more crew and set out on voyages, simple patrols and guard duty for foreign ships at first. Life is fairly quiet, but that all changes when **Sigrid** springs aboard their ship, dragging her sister with her. She is haughty and dresses in clothes of fine make, obviously wealthy. They wonder at Rollond’s decision until they see her fight. It turns out that she is fierce and terrifying, a burning comet with all the fire to match evenly with Rollond. They flirt until the Wolves’ ears are bleeding, fight side by side and their skirl looks alive as Sigrid finally mends the cracks in his heart that Karl left. Sigrid’s sister **Iona** is smaller, less wild, but she is fast and agile, their biggest asset when quiet infiltration is required. They’re welcomed with open arms.

Dell carves a new figurehead, a lady of war brandishing an axe as wolves leap behind her. The meaning of it is obvious, and Sigrid gives a near-blinding grin when she sees it for the first time. They display it on the front of their ship proudly.

They are the ones that sail to Helleno and travel to the Middle Kingdoms, evacuating refugees and getting rid of pirates, always small towns, never anything too noteworthy. They are the people that help the good remains of the Sharks brotherband get back on their feet, and they work together on _Wolfrunner_ until Karl gets his crew a ship of their own. Rollond and Karl are friends after that— it isn’t an easy road, but they navigate it, and slowly old bitterness fades into a good friendship. Sigrid is defensive (and more than a little possessive) at first until Karl waves it aside and explains that he isn’t interested in _anyone_ that way. From then on, when Rollond’s crew needs backup, Karl is always behind them aboard _Stormwind_.

The Wolves save a hundred, a thousand lives, and watch their fellow agemates rise to glory. Some of them are bitter and envious at times, but in the end, they let it go. They fly under the radar. The people they rescue love them, their friends know they can count on them, and when the Herons are overrun at the Ice River, the Wolves sail to their rescue. They refuse the prestige, the compensation, because they have learned that fame isn't what they’re after in the end.

Because, in the end, they are the most beloved crew in Hallasholm. A lack of grandeur is a small price for them to pay for the family they have found.

**Author's Note:**

> if i were to ever,,,,,,,, make snippets and glimpses into the lives of the wolves would y'all be interested??


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